


Every Word

by GoldenDaydreams



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Curse The Bard, Curses, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Multi, Praise Kink, hurt the bard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-12
Updated: 2020-12-12
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:15:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28031496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoldenDaydreams/pseuds/GoldenDaydreams
Summary: Jaskier kept his secrets close. The fewer who knew, the fewer could hurt him with the curse—it was a secret he intended on taking to the grave.The grave might just come early.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Jaskier | Dandelion/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 38
Kudos: 504





	Every Word

**Author's Note:**

  * For [handwrittenhello](https://archiveofourown.org/users/handwrittenhello/gifts).



> Happy Belated Birthday <3

In all the years they’d travelled together, and all of the stories Jaskier ever told, his own was not one of them. He talked of Geralt, of monsters, and maidens, of magic, and travel, but never of himself. No, Jaskier kept his secrets close, tucked away, for the fewer who knew, the fewer could hurt him with the curse—it was a secret he intended on taking to the grave. 

And as he stumbled in his step, he thought the grave might just come early. Even thinking about climbing down the mountain in the state he was in made him dry heave, and grab the rock wall for support. He managed a few steps forward, before the pain shot through his ribs and left him wheezing for breath. Fear slithered down his spine, turned his knees to jelly and they gave out, nearly making him tumble from the narrow ledge in the process. 

He clung to the ground, pressed his forehead to the dirt, and knew without a doubt that he needed to get down the fucking mountain before it killed him. 

He had survived the curse every other time, but this time hurt far worse than any other. Never, not once had it ever been close to this bad. In his past, he’d taken shots from Valdo, from unappreciative audiences, from husbands of the wives he’d found his way under the skirts of, he’d even been hurt by Geralt before, but nothing like this, _never like this_. 

Feverish, he crawled along until the narrow ledge became something he felt safe enough to try standing on. Legs weak as a newborn colt’s, he trembled, barely staying upright as he lifted the chemise under his doublet and discovered the horrible dark bruises around his ribs. “Fuck.” 

It was the first time since he’d been cursed that he wondered if he would actually die from it. 

The moment Geralt’s words hit home, he’d been speechless with the sharp pains in his ribs, his heart. He’d choked on his emotions, managed to say something about getting the story elsewhere, said a goodbye that tasted like blood, and managed to walk a decent way before the pain level rose from ‘agony’ to ‘everything hurts, am I dying?’ Which was good, he didn’t want Geralt to see him like this, to suddenly act as though he cared only because Jaskier was hurt, to take care of him only because Geralt (even if he would never admit it) was a good person. He wouldn’t just let Jaskier suffer and die. 

Not if he knew. 

Jaskier had to stop, hand against a tree as he made it to a lower portion of the mountain. He tried to take calming breaths in through his nose, and exhale slow, but he just ended up hyperventilating and then dry heaving as his ribs spasmed. He pushed away from the tree, propelled by both the desire to be as far from Geralt as humanly possible, but also considering the steep trail, gravity. He stumbled down a number of steps, sliding to an ungraceful stop at the bottom, and wrapped his arms around himself. 

No matter how much he wanted to just lay down, he had to go, he could get somewhere, just far enough that Geralt’s witcher nose wouldn’t pick up on him, wouldn’t scent the pain. 

Would it matter if he did?

Geralt’s words on the mountain cycled through his mind once again, and it felt as though someone had sliced open his back with a whip. Had the curse really broken skin this time? No. It couldn’t do that. Right? It never had before. Sweat, just pain and sweat. He felt too hot, but didn’t want to have to actively carry his doublet, so he kept it on. 

He turned the corner and could see Roach. She wasn’t alone. Yennefer stood there, going through Geralt’s bag, and methodically breaking his potions. 

She seemed to sense him, and turned her violet eyes his way. She looked past him, clearly looking for someone else, looking for Geralt. Of course, it was him she wanted. She barely bothered to give Jaskier a once over. “You look like shit, Bard. Looks like he didn’t care to keep you around either. Too much of a bother? Hmm?” 

It was nothing compared to the damage Geralt had done, but her words still hit, they still had power, they still hurt. 

His ribs spasmed as he choked, coughed, then spat out a mouthful of blood. 

That was new. 

Fuck. 

He looked up at her, and saw the alarm on her face. “Yen—” 

She was blurry, then closer, then her cold hands were on his face. When did he end up on the ground? She said something, but it was like she spoke through water and then—

Nothing. 

°°°

Jaskier was no stranger of waking up in places he didn’t quite remember going to sleep in. Usually it meant he’d drank too much, gone home with someone in those blurred moments, perhaps a night of passion followed, and then waking in an unfamiliar bed, with an unfamiliar face. Yet, he knew in those first waking moments that was not the case this time. 

Everything hurt, from his little toe all the way to his eyeballs, everything inside and out ached. A part of him knew he should be worried, that he should wonder about the overly comfortable bed, about the fancy objects around the room that he could not name, if not concerned, at least curious. 

Instead, he laid on the bed, staring up at the draped fabric over the four posts. Pretty, a bit of sparkle, indulgent. 

The scent of lilac and gooseberries reached him and he remembered the bottom of the mountain. 

_Fuck, fuck, fucking shit—_

He forced himself to sit up, and willed himself not to cry out at the pain it brought. He’d heal. He’d be fine. He’d always felt better after a few days passed, but he couldn’t stay here. Yennefer helped him in the spur of the moment, probably more out of curiosity than anything, or to have something over him. He had nothing, no way to pay her back. 

Had she figured it out? 

Did she know?

He managed a couple of steps, and held onto the wall. His doublet sat on the other side of the room, and he realized his chemise had been removed. Splotches of purple littered his chest, and even parts of his arms. 

The door swung open, and he saw her. Yennefer had her hair up in some lazy updo, the shimmery black dress she wore was made of a light fabric that swayed with her every motion, and in her hands she worked some kind of paste in a mortar. 

She looked him over. “You shouldn’t be out of bed.” 

“Hate to be a bother,” he said, trying to keep his breathing even. “I’ll just grab my stuff and be out of your hair. Lovely hair too, beautiful as the rest of you—”

“You don’t have to falsely flatter me,” she replied dryly. “I’m well aware of how you feel about me.” 

“I can be afraid of you and still think you’re beautiful.” 

She sighed. “Please just sit down before you fall down. I had to carry you through a portal to get here, at least let me make sure none of your internal organs are punctured.” 

A day ago he would have said the curse never affected him that badly, but now he just didn’t know. It also didn’t help that he didn’t actually know where he was, or how far his weakened body could take him. Thus far, Yennefer had been nice enough. 

He stumbled back a step, and she took his arm, gently guiding him to sit back down on the bed. She set the mortar and pestle down on the nightstand, before she trailed her hands from his shoulders, slowly over his chest, skin tingling where she touched. 

She looked him in the eye, and only then did he realize just how close they were, she quickly looked away. “The paste will help with the pain and bruising,” she promised. She dipped her fingers into the mortar and in small circles started the long process of rubbing it into his chest. 

It felt nice, not just the warming sensation of the paste, but the way she kept her touch featherlight, actively trying not to cause him more pain. “Thank you,” he whispered. 

“I can’t believe he’d do this.” Her voice warbled, and her face pinched like she too was in pain. “Least of all to you.”

It was like that one time Geralt had tossed him into an icy lake, (in fairness, that had been to keep him from a monster that could not tolerate water,) the shock hit first, the disbelief, and then the indignant anger. He swallowed it all back, but grabbed her hand, stilling it, and she looked up at him with a brow raised. 

What could he say? Geralt didn’t do this—but oh, he had. Just not in the way she would expect. How could he explain the injuries without explaining the curse?

“He didn’t touch me. I fell.” 

“You fell,” she deadpanned. “And I’m the Queen of Cintra.” 

“The mountain is dangerous—”

“Don’t speak to me as if I’m a fool,” she snapped. “The bruising is almost methodical, wraps around your body! Did you fall from the mountain, and roll the entire way down? Cut only in two precise parallel lines down your back?” 

So the curse had broken skin. He bit the tip of his tongue, struggled to find an excuse, and in failing to do so, he turned away from her gaze. Still, he couldn’t let Yennefer believe Geralt to be that kind of monster. Geralt had been angry, cruel with his words, but Jaskier still knew he’d never hurt him like this, leave him broken, and gasping for air. 

He sniffled a little as her touch returned, gentle as ever as she applied the healing paste onto the bruises. “He didn’t touch me,” he whispered. It was hard to believe that after all the years of keeping his secret, it would be to Yennefer of Vengerberg he would reveal it. “I was cursed.” Her hand paused and he made eye contact with her, her expression had hardened. “It happened back when I was still studying in Oxenfurt. A group of us got drunk, and there were other performers who were coming through, we all showcased our skills.” He frowned. “There was a harpist, who wasn’t the most talented and I… well I was scathing with my review. My peers laughed and it bolstered me. I just… I was needlessly cruel with my words.” 

“The harpist was a mage,” Yennefer filled in. 

“The harpist was a mage,” Jaskier confirmed, and sighed. “I was very drunk, and she awaited me outside my apartment. I couldn’t even tell you what she said, I could barely stand, but from that day on—” he chewed on the inside of his cheek, realizing how much power he was giving over to her, “—the emotional pain brought on by the words of others transfers into physical pain. Usually it’s just a few bruises. Occasionally it makes it hard to breathe.” 

Yennefer grabbed his chin, and turned his face with utmost care. “Does Geralt know?” 

“No. I never told him.” 

“I don’t know if that makes you brave or—” she stopped, her eyes widening before she let her hand drop. “I’m sorry, I will try to be more careful with my words.” 

He wrung his hands. “I half thought you’d use this to your advantage.” 

She frowned. “I know the pain words can bring. My father sold me for four marks.” 

He ached for her, he wasn’t a stranger to being a disappointment to his family, but even they would never try to sell him off. “I’m sorry.”

“It was a long time ago.” Her hand trailed lower, trembled a little, and she set the paste aside. “I should take a look at your back. I did what I could when you were unconcious.” 

“How long was I out for?” 

“About two hours,” she replied. Tendrils of her dark hair fell around her face when she gave her head a little shake. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell him.”

“I never told anyone.” 

Her eyes went wide, owlish. “And here you are, telling me of all people?” 

The ache in his heart was unrelated to the curse. “He loves you. He’s terrible at showing it, but he does. And you love him too, I can see it, and he deserves that love in his life.” He paused, willing his voice to remain even. “You _both_ deserve that love, I can’t let you think he’d do—” he gestured to his bruised body, “—this. He wouldn’t.” 

Her lips pressed into a hard line. She didn’t say anything else, just climbed on the bed, hand on his shoulder, before fingers trailed down his back and he shuddered. 

“Did that hurt?” she asked, voice a barely there whisper. 

He swallowed against the lump in his throat. “No.” 

She hummed in a very Geralt-like fashion. “Looks like the magic held.” Her fingertips pressed, just enough to feel, but it didn’t bring him pain. He felt the bed dip once more as she slid her legs over the edge, sitting beside him. Her dress had clung to the bed, exposing her knees and shapely calves, his eyes lingered longer than they should have. She rubbed at a glob of the paste on his chest until it had smoothed over his skin, her eyes fixated at the place they touched. 

Everything seemed all too much all at once. “Are you going to kiss it better?” he said in jest, trying to lighten the mood. 

Her eyes darted up to meet his, she stared long and hard, and it made him want to squirm. She leaned in and kissed his cheek. “I’ll get you something to eat.” 

Her feet touched the floor, and the rest of her dress cascaded down, hiding her lovely legs from view. His eyes followed her until the door shut behind her. Somehow, inside of ten minutes, he felt as if something major had shifted, and there was no way he could have predicted the fall out. 

°°°

The bruising still looked horrific the next morning, but Yennefer sat on the side of the bed and watched Jaskier sleep. She had never sensed magic on Jaskier, the curse so old, so ingrained she didn’t know if even with all of her power if she could untangle it from his being. It surprised her that she wanted to. He hadn’t even asked for some kind of miracle, but she wanted to perform one. The thought that one careless word could bring upon him agony didn’t sit well with her. 

Yennefer was far from innocent. She couldn’t claim that she’d never harmed another with her magic, but the thought of it being Jaskier cursed, constantly harmed by the careless words of strangers and friends alike left her on edge. Every previous interaction she had with him was now under a magnifying glass, how many times had she hurt him? How many times had her words left dark blotches upon his pale skin? Had her words ever struck so hard as to make him bleed? She hadn’t seen many scars while patching him up, it was more likely those were from a life lived recklessly. 

A shiver ran down her spine as she thought of seeing him at the bottom of the mountain. So involved in her own pain, she’d been blind to his, at least until the blood spilled from his lips. That had been surprising. Almost as much as her own reaction to it. The panic that had quickened her blood. Without thought, no consideration to her own benefit, she’d gone to him, held his face in her hands before his knees started to buckle. 

She’d been scared. For him. 

While she’d often thought him annoying, an interference, an obstacle between her and Geralt, at some point she’d grown to care. She couldn’t pinpoint when, but she must have because as he gurgled on the blood in the back of his throat she’d done everything in her power to help him. Not because she had to because of some duty to a court, not because he could offer her something in return, no, she helped him because the thought of a world without him in it left her cold. 

And she didn’t know what to do with that nameless feeling in her chest. 

He groaned, his head turned, eyes still closed. His hand reached out, seeking something. 

Her hand slid across the sheets, putting herself in the path. Jaskier’s hand paused when he touched her skin. He rolled, turning toward her, his hand covering hers, fingers wrapping around, holding. 

Her heart gave a traitorous twist. His lute callouses weren’t so different from Geralt’s sword callouses. Jaskier’s fingers were thinner though, probably more nimble considering his profession. She’d never noticed his ring before, the gold on gold signet. She wondered if it was from his family, or perhaps something he’d bought himself now that he’d become more well-known and spent more time performing for courts with hefty purses. 

His eyes opened into tiny slits, closing again with a little frown. 

“Not one for mornings?” she murmured. “Do you want me to close the drapes?” 

His hand tightened on hers. “Don’t go,” he muttered, sounding still half asleep. 

She lifted her free hand, concentrated her chaos, and the drapes moved, blocking out the worst of the sun. “Better?” 

He blinked a few times, eyes open wider than before. Then, all at once, he seemed to understand that he had a hold on her hand. “Oh, sorry.” 

She missed the warmth of him right away. “It’s fine, I would have moved otherwise. Are you hungry?” 

“I think I’m still full from dinner,” he said. Each breath soft, even, much better than the pained shallow breaths from before. “It’s been a little lean lately, not used to having so much.” 

“Well, the kitchens are down the hall. Are you strong enough to get there on your own if I’m to leave?” 

He sat up slow, the blankets pooling at his waist. His torso, covered in thick hair, and the healing paste, looked better. The bruising, while still purple in some spots, had gone down to a mix of greens and yellows in other areas. He cleared his throat, and she realized she’d been staring. 

“You’re leaving?” he asked. “Where? Are you coming back?”

It had been a long time since she answered questions about her whereabouts. “I’m going to find Geralt.” 

“Oh.” 

“Jaskier, he needs to know about this—”

“No, he really doesn’t,” Jaskier snapped. “I didn’t let him know when I was travelling with him for years, decades even—”

_Decades._

“—And now he’s made it quite clear that we are not friends, and that he does not want me in his life. It doesn’t matter anymore—” his voice cracked, “—he won’t be there to hurt me.” 

She didn’t know what to do when he started crying. For a man so loud and dramatic most of the time, the crying was almost silent, trembling breaths, and tear tracks giving him away. She didn’t know how to comfort people, no one had ever bothered to try and spare her feelings, to keep her tucked away from the cruelty of the world, to soothe her fears or pains. 

But she did know how to distract, how to feel good for a moment. 

She leaned in, kissed him lightly on the lips, pulled back when he didn’t respond right away. 

He sniffled a bit, looked confused. “You love Geralt,” he said in a watery voice. 

“Maybe.” Love had been illusive in all of it’s forms during her long life. 

His tears had dried in the confusion. “Why did you kiss me?” 

The question circled her mind, she had to answer, but worried something dismissive might hurt him, and that left her with only honesty. “I don’t like to see you sad or hurting.” Jaskier was light, and love, and unrestrained joy, and seeing all of that crushed down into pain and sadness brought upon an unexpected wave of protectiveness in her. 

His lips twisted into a self-deprecating smile. “You don’t have to kiss me out of pity.” 

“Can I kiss you because I want to? Because I want you to feel good, then can I?”

“Yen—” The moment hung between them, drawn out on baited breath before this time it was Jaskier who closed the distance between them. Unlike Geralt, he didn’t dominate a kiss. Kissing Jaskier was a soft, gentle thing. His lips were coaxing and sweet, he kissed like he wanted her to take control, to guide it, to be what she wanted or needed. A hand settled on her knee, and she grabbed it to drag up her thigh. He said her name against her lips, sharing breath as they panted. 

“It would feel good,” she whispered against his lips. 

“I’m literally one big bruise.” 

He had a point. She leaned back. “Sorry.” 

“Oh no, it’s I who is sorry,” he said with a soft smile as his eyes raked down her body. Most of the time it would make her feel irritated, or powerful in the right company, but with Jaskier she struggled to put a name to it. She thought that he looked at her _adoringly_ , and that just couldn’t be right. “I won’t put on a terrible performance and have you saying I’m a bad lover. I wouldn’t survive it.” 

He was being dramatic, he was playing, teasing, but her heart clenched. “I’m going to do everything in my power to break this curse.” 

“I could never repay you—”

“I’m not asking for anything,” she said sharply. 

His hands cupped her face before he kissed her slow. Languid pleasure simmered in a pleasant buzz. “Thank you.” 

“I haven’t managed to do anything yet,” she said, her forehead resting against his. 

“You care enough to try, and I can thank you for it.” 

“I still think we should tell Geralt.” 

“He doesn’t want me in his life. If he were to be told now—” he shook his head, “—it just doesn’t matter anymore.” 

“You keep saying that you can see that he loves me, but I could always see how deeply he cares for you. It’s you he smiles so fondly for, it’s you he seeks out in a crowd, it’s you he talks of when we are together. He adores you. It’s as you once said, he’s just terrible at showing it.” 

Jaskier sighed heavily. “I don’t know. Maybe something to revisit later?” He gestured to himself. “Not sure I could handle the fall out as it stands.” 

“To be discussed later then,” she agreed. “Ready to eat now?” 

“I suppose I could eat a bit.” 

“Come on then,” and when she stood she reached out her hand for him to take, as if she’d been doing it her whole life. He didn’t seem to think it odd, and his fingers interlocked with hers. 

°°°

The path felt different in the early spring. He hated leaving Ciri up in the Blue Mountains with Vesemir, but it was far safer than taking her with him. Her magic needed training, and even with Eskel vowing to remain until Geralt’s return, they all knew she needed someone who could really work with her chaos. There was only one sorceress he knew well enough, only one he trusted, and even if he could find her, he doubted she’d do him any favours. 

Even knowing he was likely to have the door slammed in his face, he tracked her. Followed news of a sorceress from town to town, to cities, and through courts, followed the trail all the way across the Continent to a small coastal town with an impressive manor. 

The thought of even just seeing Yennefer again filled him with more dread than any monster ever had. He still made himself follow the cobblestone and bang his fist upon the door. After a minute, he knocked again, continuing until the door opened. 

Yennefer stood there, hair down, wearing nothing but an elaborate dressing gown. She stood tall, and glared up at him, her violet eyes still as unnerving as they were the first time they met. And still every bit as beautiful. 

“Geralt.”

“Yennefer.” 

She arched a brow, and he breathed in the scent of her. That lilac and gooseberries, as well as the scent of her arousal, and… parchment and lemongrass. _Jaskier._ Well. That was unexpected. 

“What are you doing here?” she asked, not letting him in. 

“This is a matter better discussed in private.” 

“Is everything okay?” Jaskier’s voice came from further in the manor, and Geralt ached to hear him, the constant humming, the clapping of a beat, the lute, and the singing. 

“Go back to bed,” Yennefer said firmly, while glaring at Geralt. 

Geralt was unsurprised by the fact that Jaskier did not stay put as ordered, he never had in the past. The only surprising thing was how close they stood, the way their scents mingled, the way he casually touched her arm like he had every right to. Maybe he did. Gods knew Geralt didn’t anymore. 

Little had changed about Jaskier since the last time they’d seen each other. He looked more casual in the manor, just wearing a chemise and probably the first pair of pants he could get his hands on, the laces a mess. A necklace hung from his neck, the stone of the pendant seemed to have a bluish smoke trapped inside. 

“What brings you here, Geralt?” Jaskier asked, cocking his head to the side. “All things considered, I didn’t expect to see you again.” 

“I just need to talk to Yennefer.” 

“Of course,” Jaskier said, his voice tight. “After all, she’s not the one who piled shit onto your life.” 

Geralt took a deep breath, and let it out slow. “I-I shouldn’t have said that.” 

“And yet, here we are.” 

Yennefer stepped back. “Well, if we’re going to be doing this, best do it inside then.” She led the way back into a room with a couch, a wooden chair, a bar cart, and a grand fireplace that had burned down to embers. She took the couch, and Jaskier sat close to her. 

The two made a striking pair, even looking at them made his heart ache. He sat down in the chair, he could deal with any measure of pain for Ciri. 

“Now, what is it that you want, Geralt?” Yennefer asked. “You’ve travelled quite the way to find us here.”

He took a deep breath. “I needed to apologize. To both of you. I took my emotions out on you both, and it wasn’t fair.” 

Yennefer twisted a ring on her finger, and sighed. “What do you need of me, Geralt?”

Geralt didn’t waste time, he explained everything after the mountain, everything that led to him meeting Ciri in those woods. Then the journey to the Blue Mountains, winter in Kaer Morhen, Ciri’s impressive but uncontrollable power. 

“I don’t know how to help her,” Geralt admitted. “And I’m afraid she’s going to hurt someone, I’m afraid she’ll hurt herself.” 

Yennefer turned to Jaskier. “You should help her,” he murmured low enough that Geralt’s hearing just barely picked it up. 

“I’m helping you,” she said back, just as quiet.

He knew he wasn’t meant to be part of the conversation, but the thought of Jaskier being in need of Yennefer’s aid worried him. “And what is it you need help with?” 

Both of them turned to him in unison. “That’s none of your business,” Jaskier said to him, then to Yennefer, “It’s okay, help Cirilla. I’ll be fine.” 

Yennefer glared at the fire, and both men waited for her decision. “I’ll travel to Kaer Morhen, I’ll help Ciri,” Yennefer turned to Jaskier, “but only if you come with me.” 

“Yen, no, I’ll be fine on my own.” 

“Jaskier—”

Jaskier’s eyes cut to Geralt, before he stood and went to the little bar cart. “I’m in more danger at Kaer Morhen than I am on the road or in a tavern. You can’t protect me forever.” 

It hurt to think Jaskier feared the stone walls of Kaer Morhen, more than being alone on the road. “No one would touch you in Kaer Morhen,” Geralt said. “You have my word.” 

Jaskier huffed out a laugh, poured himself some wine, and chugged it like it was water and he’d been dying of thirst. 

“Kaer Morhen has an extensive library,” Yennefer said. “Maybe it’ll help.” 

“I said no!” Jaskier slammed the chalice down, and spun around. Geralt recognized the kind of feral fight in his bard, and stood only to be pushed, but Jaskier didn’t have much strength behind him, certainly not enough to push a witcher off balance. “I don’t’ want to go to Kaer Morhen, I don’t want to be trapped an entire season with you, with the words—” his hand fluttered around his temple, and that lemongrass scent soured. “I won’t survive you again.” 

Geralt grabbed Jaskier’s arm, afraid that he would put space between them. “What are you talking about?”

“Nothing for you to concern yourself with,” Jaskier replied sharply. “Now let go.” 

Geralt released him. “I’d help you, if you just told me what’s wrong. I am sorry for before. I’ve never regretted anything as much as I regret losing you both.” The pendant Jaskier wore glowed a little, and some of the tension left Jaskier’s body. Geralt reached out and held it in his hand, felt the buzz of chaos in it. “What is this?”

“None of your business.” 

“Must you be so stubborn?” 

The muscle in Jaskier’s jaw flexed as he clenched his teeth. 

“Watch your tongue,” Yennefer snapped. Her hand was possessive on the back of Jaskier’s neck. “You are strong,” she murmured and the pendant glowed once more. Jaskier leaned back a little into Yennefer’s touch. 

It was bazaar to see them together, but the magic at play set him on edge. He’d learned about playing with another person’s emotions after the wish. “What are you doing to him?” 

“Helping,” Yennefer said shortly. 

“Jaskier?” 

“Oh, now you care,” Jaskier muttered. 

“I always cared, I will always care for you.” 

The pendant pulsed again, and Jaskier trembled. 

“What the fuck is this thing doing?” Geralt grabbed it again, trying to inspect it, but Yennefer batted his hand away. 

“You don’t get to take his choice about this,” Yennefer said. “His secrets are his.” 

“Are they?” He gestured to the pendant. “Full of magic, what are you doing to him Yen? Because the last I saw of you two, you couldn’t stand each other.”

“Just what are you implying?” She asked, her voice cold as the icy rivers in Skellige. 

“He’s implying the only way you could tolerate me is if you did something with your magic,” Jaskier said. Those blue eyes narrowed on Geralt. “You know, not everyone finds me as intolerable as you do.” 

“I—Jaskier, that isn’t what I meant,” Geralt struggled under the weight of what he’d done, how his words had affected Jaskier. “I said I am sorry—”

“It still hurts,” Jaskier snapped. “Apologizing doesn’t erase the fact that you still thought it, still said it, still hurt me.” 

“Then let me prove how sorry I am. Come to Kaer Morhen with Yen. Meet Ciri, and my family. Let me show you I care.” 

He hate that he’d ended up in a situation like this, that he’d been so careless with his words that he damaged the friendship between them, possibly irreparably. He could tell he was wearing Jaskier down, but it didn’t bring him much joy considering something also triggered the magic in the pendant he didn’t understand.

Jaskier looked to Yennefer, brow ached in a silent question. She replied with a half shrug, putting the decision back in Jaskier’s hands. “For Ciri’s sake then,” he muttered, eyes focussed somewhere over Geralt’s shoulder. “I’ll pack my things.” 

Yennefer’s eyes followed the retreating form of Jaskier, and only turned back to Geralt once Jaskier was out of sight. “Watch your words,” she hissed at him. “I won’t forgive you if you break him like that again.” She turned on her heel and left him standing there with an ache in his heart. 

He’d got what he’d come for, but still felt like he’d lost. 

°°°

The journey up the mountain was much easier in the spring than it had been in the winter. Yennefer had been able to portal them to a nearby town, but since she’d never been to Kaer Morhen she couldn’t portal them the whole way. The three of them were quiet during the climb. The change in altitude gave Jaskier a nosebleed at one point, and Geralt had offered him one of his shirts to clean off the blood with, keeping it off his much finer clothes. Jaskier had taken it with the smallest whisper of thanks. 

The gate opened as they approached. Eskel awaited just inside. “Welcome back, Wolf.” 

Geralt nodded, standing along side him to look back at his exhausted companions. “Yennefer of Vengerburg, and Jaskier.” 

“Welcome to Kaer Morhen,” Eskel said. “I’ve heard a lot about you both.” Jaskier winced, and looked away. “All good things,” Eskel continued. “It’s been a long time since we’ve had any entertainment in these walls. Might you play a few songs for us, Jaskier? Not tonight, of course, you must both be exhausted, but once you’re rested.” 

“You want me to play?” Jaskier raised a brow.

“Of course! Geralt often laments your absence here, and praises your songs.” 

Jaskier’s eyes widened, and Geralt felt a lump in his throat at the guilt that rose within him. How careless had he’d been with Jaskier for the bard to be surprised by such a comment?

He toyed with that magic pendant around his neck. “Alright, tomorrow then.” 

Eskel smiled. “Excellent, I’ll—” 

A snowball hit Geralt in the back of his head, and he looked over his shoulder to see Lambert and Ciri pointing at each other. “This one is a menace!” Lambert said as he started walking over to join them. 

“I didn’t do it!” Ciri protested. “I didn’t! Geralt!” 

“I believe you,” Geralt told her, already planning on now to drop Lambert headfirst into a snowbank. 

Ciri stuck out her tongue at Lambert before she walked right into Geralt, wrapping her arms around his waist. “You came back.” 

“Promised I would,” Geralt said, still at a loss of how to deal with her separation anxiety. Considering the numerous losses in such a short amount of time, he figured it would be something that would take a long time to heal. “I want you to meet—” _my friends_? “Yennefer and Jaskier. Yen will be helping you control your chaos.” 

Ciri squinted at Jaskier. “I remember you. You played in Cintra when I was just a little girl, didn’t you?” 

Geralt turned to Jaskier who toed the ground. “For a short while, yes.” 

“You never said anything,” Geralt said. 

“You never asked what I did when we parted,” Jaskier said with a shrug. 

Eskel, bless him, seemed to understand there was a weight in the moment. “Let’s get you two settled. Ciri, why don’t you help Geralt with Roach, and you can tell him all about the pigs in blankets fiasco.” 

“Pigs in blankets?” Geralt muttered, but Eskel was already retreating, Yennefer and Jaskier following him. 

Ciri sighed in a long-suffering way. “It’s a long story, and it was Lambert’s fault—”

“Hey!” 

°°°

The next night came with music. Geralt couldn’t find the words to express how much he’d missed it. There were memorable quick dancing songs that Jaskier sung until Ciri went to bed, Vesemir leaving them soon after. At Lambert’s request, Jaskier switched to dirty tavern songs after that, ones that came with a bit of pacing, a dirty grind of his hips, voice lowering into some kind of heated promise. A wink reserved for Yennefer, who smiled into her wine. 

The night had an air of excitement and good fun, such a rarity in the life of a witcher, but especially within the walls of Kaer Morhen. 

Lambert shook his head, swaying a little when he stopped, the White Gull really working it’s magic. “We aught to play some Gwent.” He tapped his finger on the table in front of Geralt. “I’ve already taken all Eskel’s money.” 

“Oh, fuck off,” Eskel said without much heat. 

The Gwent cards came out regardless. Jaskier perched himself upon the table near Yennefer. The view came with the benefit that he could lean forward to see what Geralt had in his hand, and back and see what Lambert was working with. 

“Hey fuck off you dirty cheat!” Lambert said pulling his cards closer to his chest when he noticed Jaskier’s gaze. “Trying to help Geralt, are you?” 

Jaskier pouted. “And how, pray tell, would I do that.” 

“Bards are always the sneaky sort,” Lambert said with a curl to his lip. “Untrustworthy.” 

Jaskier’s breathing shifted, and he looked away, his fingers falling from the lute he’d been quietly plucking at. 

“Watch your mouth,” Yennefer said with that dangerous heat that spelled trouble.

Geralt glared at Lambert. “I trust Jaskier with my life, leave him alone.” 

Lambert rolled his eyes in response. “That’s the kind of attachment that’ll get you killed. Bards’ve got loose tongues.” He leaned on the table toward Jaskier, who eyed him warily. “Pretty though, can see why you let him stick around.” 

The bottle of White Gull exploded, and soaked their playing cards. 

“You fucking bitch!” Lambert slammed his hands on the table, standing even as Geralt stood ready to intercept him. Lambert didn’t stand a chance against Eskel’s quick reflexes, he just grabbed Lambert’s arm and roughly yanked him back down to his seat. “And you thought this was a good idea, huh?” he asked, glaring up at Geralt. “Bringing a high-strung bitch of a sorceress, and a talentless twenty-year tag-along?” 

Jaskier made a small wounded noise, and Geralt grabbed Lambert by the front of his shirt. “Enough!” 

The two men just glared at each other, a battle of wills before Lambert put both of his hands up, a sneer on his face. “Whatever. I’ll be back on the path tomorrow.” He swatted Geralt’s hand away and returned to trying to save his card collection. “Good fucking riddance.” 

Yennefer stood, placed a hand on Jaskier’s elbow. “I think it’s time to retire for the evening.” 

“I’ll escort you,” Geralt said. “Some areas aren’t safe, I don’t want you two getting turned around.” 

By the time they were halfway to the room, Jaskier was taking slow measured breaths, it wasn’t right, especially not the thin wheezing. Geralt stopped when he lit another torch along the way with the one he carried, and then looked back. Jaskier was leaning into Yennefer a little, a thin layer of sweat on his brow despite the chill. 

“Are you okay?” 

“Just drank a bit too much.” 

Geralt noticed the sharp uptick in Jaskier’s heartrate before it settled again. “Did you just lie to me?” 

Jaskier grimaced, his hand clutching over his ribs. “No.” 

The same uptick in rhythm before evening again. Another lie. 

“You’re hurt. What happened? I was watching Ciri all day—was it Lambert? Did he—”

“No, no he didn’t,” Jaskier said. A lie. _Another fucking lie_. 

“I promised you that you would be safe here!” Geralt couldn’t believe he’d missed it, once more he’d let Jaskier down. “I’ll kill him,” Geralt muttered, passing the torch to a surprised Yennefer, but he didn’t get far. 

Jaskier was quick when he wanted to be, and grabbed Geralt’s forearm. “It wasn’t his fault—”

A lie. 

“Stop. Stop lying to me.” He couldn’t take the tears in Jaskier’s eyes, and he cupped Jaskier’s face as gentle as he could. “Lambert hurt you—”

“I was cursed,” Jaskier whined. “He didn’t do it on purpose. It’s just… it’s just the curse.” 

Yennefer plastered herself to Jaskier’s back, keeping the flame away from them. “You’re doing so well, Jaskier, so good. You made the smart call to tell Geralt.” 

Once again the pendant glowed, and Jaskier leaned back into her a little. “It’s too much,” Jaskier murmured. 

“Let’s get you settled in the room then,” Yennefer said. 

Geralt led them the rest of the way, added some wood to the fire so they wouldn’t get cold, and by the time he turned around, Yennefer was removing Jaskier’s shirt. Bruises bloomed along his ribs, curving up toward the center of his chest. Jaskier’s fingertips danced along the edges, testing the tenderness. 

Impatience won out. “What happened?” 

“Just a little curse,” Jaskier said. “It’s not that bad. I’ve lived with it for years, nearly a few decades to be honest.” 

Geralt pinched the bridge of his nose. “Decades,” he muttered. “And you didn’t think to tell me?” 

“There is nothing that can be done. Even Yen has just found a counterweight,” Jaskier shook the chain around his neck, the pendant swaying. 

“You’re a storyteller, you know the best place to start is at the beginning,” Yennefer said. 

“Ah, well not always,” Jaskier argued, but continued on, spoke of school, some drunken antics, a mage, a curse— 

Geralt turned back to the fire, throat tight. 

“See, this, this is why I didn’t tell you,” Jaskier said. “You’re brooding.” 

“How many times did I hurt you without a thought?” Geralt snarled. “How many times did I do it on purpose? I see now why you didn’t want to come here.” 

Jaskier sighed heavily. “It’s usually not that bad, a bit of bruising here or there.” 

“That… that shouldn’t be acceptable to you,” Geralt argued, returning to them. “You shouldn’t be at physical risk from a curse… how many times have you started a fight in some town because of things people said about me, only for them to refocus their spite toward you?” 

Jaskier pouted. “Words hurt you too.” 

“Not the same. Not like that.” 

“You always denied even being my friend, I just—” Jaskier shrugged. “It was fine until—”

“The mountain,” Yennefer said. 

Geralt couldn’t let the truth sit in his heart and not expose it to Jaskier. “You are my friend. And I do trust you with my life, I meant that. You’re trustworthy and— why is that glowing?” 

The bruises looked days old, but Jaskier was panting. 

Geralt poked at the pendant. “What is this?” 

“What is the opposite of pain and harm?” Yennefer asked. 

“Pleasure and healing—” Geralt figured. “The pendant activates to kind words.” 

“It’s a work in progress, unfortunately a little risque in public,” Yennefer said with a smirk. 

“Ha-ha,” Jaskier said dryly. “We’re not talking about that.” 

“So you say nice things and he heals,” Geralt said.

“You have to mean them,” Yennefer said, sitting on the bed, positioning herself a little behind, and to the side of Jaskier, her fingers dragging up and down his arm. 

Jaskier leaned into Yennefer’s touch while he toyed with the chain, a little smile on his face. “So I am your friend.” 

“Of course.” He didn’t dare ask what kind of damage he’d left after the mountain if this was just what Lambert had managed to do. “You’re my best friend even. You’re smart, and—” he saw Jaskier’s pupils dilate, caught just the slightest whiff of arousal. “Talented, I love watching you play—”

“Geralt,” Jaskier drew out his name, but it didn’t sound like he was protesting. 

Geralt did glace at Yennefer, to see if she had any complaints, but if anything she looked smug, as if she’d known that eventually the three of them would be right here. “I didn’t realize it brought sexual pleasure.” 

Yennefer laughed. “Only if the commenter feels sexually attracted to Jaskier does it affect him like that.” 

Jaskier stared at him with wide eyes, bottom lip caught between his teeth.

“You smell good.” Geralt wished he could take the words back once they were said, a little too odd, but Jaskier let out a soft moan. 

“Very talented,” she said, the glow of the pendant growing stronger. “In so many ways, my little flower.” 

“You have a good sense of humour, it makes the path far less dreary.” 

“Such a quick wit—”

“Handsome and—”

“Strong, in mind and body—”

“Stop.” The scent of arousal hung heavy in the air, and Jaskier squirmed under their attention. “You’re—I—” He glanced down at the tent in his breeches. “I get the point,” his voice pitched high. “I’m quite wonderful, got it!”

Yennefer’s smile was wicked as she leaned in to lick the shell of his ear, her hand possessive on his chest. “That voice of yours is otherworldly, it’s like magic all of it’s own, so beautiful—” 

“I’ve missed your singing, and composing and—” 

Jaskier moaned, his head lulling back onto Yennefer’s shoulder, and her long nails raked through his hair as he shuddered. 

“Feel good?” Geralt asked. 

“Yes.” Jaskier reached out, his fingers clenched in Geralt’s shirt, using the grip to drag him closer. “Are you going to keep talking, or are you going to do something about it?”

The three of them so close, Geralt could tell that Jaskier wasn’t the only one aroused. 

“Do you want me to?” Geralt asked. 

“Of course I do!” Jaskier huffed out a breath. “I’ve been trying to make you see that for the better part of at least a decade!” 

Geralt glanced at Yennefer. “And you?” 

She cupped his cheek. “If he’s forgiven you, so have I.” 

Jaskier wrapped his legs around Geralt’s waist, and Geralt let him topple him over, until they were a mess on the bed. Yennefer on her side, pressed up against Jaskier who was on his back, and Geralt over top of him. “Your eyes are beautiful,” Geralt murmured, kissing along Jaskier’s neck, gentle, having seen enough bruising on his skin. “And your hands.” He groaned at the thought alone, arousal heightened by the way Jaskier’s hips moved against him. “They’re incredible, the way they feel in my hair, against my skin—”

“If you think bath time is fun, you should see what he can do with them inside of you,” Yennefer gloated. 

“Oh fuck!” Jaskier’s flushed face turned toward her, and she kissed him, slow and sweet. The moment the kiss broke, Jaskier grabbed Geralt by a fistful of hair and dragged him down into something much more heated, and demanding. “Please, please,” he muttered against Geralt’s lips. 

“You’re so good, and kind, and sweet, and beautiful, and talented, and skilled, and—” 

Jaskier’s back arched as he cried out, Geralt could smell his release, and grinned, reaching between them to cup Jaskier’s cock through his breeches, to grind the heel of his palm along the hardness, extending the pleasure until Jaskier twisted away from it panting hard. Yennefer’s nails dragged up Jaskier’s chest, and the man shuddered in response.

Geralt shifted to the side as to not crush Jaskier, he studied the expanse of skin to find no traces of the bruises. It was like they’d never happened. The fact that his words had healed instead of harmed this time didn’t lessen the guilt, but it was a start. 

Jaskier turned to him, a soft smile on his face. “You mean it.” 

“Every word.” 

°°°

Jaskier woke in the wonderfully warm bed in Kaer Morhen, in his sleep, he’d wrapped himself around Yennefer. He knew she had already awoken since her nails were gently making circles in his hair. Geralt had curled up behind him, arm hooked over his chest like he was afraid Jaskier might escape in the middle of the night. 

Somehow, Yennefer knew he was awake. “I’ll start searching the library today for something to help break the curse.” 

Jaskier shifted so he could rest his chin just above her breast. “Hmm… we can keep the necklace though, right?” 

He felt Geralt move, the pressure of teeth where his neck and shoulder met. “You won’t need it.” 

Sandwiched between two people he knew loved him, Jaskier couldn’t recall a time he’d been happier. Or safer. Curse included. 


End file.
